


The world will end in fire.

by Deducingsocks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anxiety, Bad Parent John Winchester, Broken Dean Winchester, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Impostor Syndrome, Lucifer Possessing Sam Winchester, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bobby Singer, Self-Hatred, Worried John Winchester, Worried Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has spent years trying to find ways to quiet is mind and ease his guilt. He's been suffering as long as he can remember and he's gone to many a dire length to numb it. </p><p>Now he's alone at the end of the world, barely alive and with only a small arsenal of weapons and regret to see him through. In order to make up for his past failings, of which there are many, Dean figures its better to set the record straight rather than bite a bullet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> * Things have gotten rather unexpected and emotional for me lately and so I figured why not fuck up Dean and lay some on him. 
> 
> * Warning's for : Mental health issues similar to depression, anxiety and suggested schizophrenia / Self harm / Suicidal thoughts / Drug abuse (mostly intravenous).  
> * The format of chapters may confuse some people so here's a low down: There will be present day chapters, there will be chapters talking about certain events of interest. You'll get the jist. 
> 
> ** Yes I know I am changing a lot up here for the second time but bare with me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Dean Winchester the end of the world was an anvil sitting heavy on his chest, a fire in his gut, a series of voices in his head; It wasn't just regret, it was monstrous. The facade of a smile and a positive attitude wore him thin. The camp didn't need to see him pretend when they all knew deep down he was broken, they needed the truth; He did this.

**Present Day;**

 

The end of the world came quickly covered in blood and deafened by the din of violence. It came as a harsh reminder that all life on earth was both fragile and strong simultaneously with the former serving the Antichrist and the latter fighting against it. But there was only so much that man could could fight alone.

For the oblivious bystander the end of the world was devastating and all too familiar to the rapture recited in biblical texts. For those who knew, __really__ knew, it was much worse worse. It was a constant regret telling them that they could have done more, they could have pushed harder and killed quicker and banished every son of a bitch that crawled it's way out of hell. It was a legion of empty promises and guilt all piled up and up, one on top of the other.

  
For Dean Winchester it was an anvil sitting heavy on his chest, a fire in his gut, a series of voices in his head; It wasn't just regret, it was monstrous. The facade of a smile and a positive attitude wore him thin. The camp didn't need to see him pretend when they all knew deep down he was broken, they needed the truth; __He did this__.

  
The scene of his confession played over in his head each and every moment of every God-damned day. Lying awake at night, staring up at the weathered material of the Impala's backseat, it was like a movie that just wouldn't stop playing. It threw him into a spiral of panic, depression and, finally, hopeless defeat. It was eating him alive.

**

  
Most nights Dean was restless. He was plagued by the over zealous beat of his heart against his breast bone and the churning of his starved stomach. It was a terrible, earth shattering kind of feeling that made his whole body shake and flutter in discomfort. He often found himself instinctively calling out for Sammy, or Castiel or Uncle Bobby but no one was ever there; They hadn’t been in months.

  
The fear of nightmares froze him, deeming him unable to sleep for days on end. It started with the heaviness which settled on his chest bringing with it a draft that chilled him to the bones. In a bid to warm himself he would pull his ratty blanket up closer to his face and ball the fabric into his fists like a child searching for comfort. The voices, _his voices_ , would whisper to him.

“ _It's time.”_ They would say.

  
 _“Not now. I can't stop now.”_ He would answer, _“ I just need to breathe.”_

  
And so he would. For several long minutes he would attempt to control his panic like he had once been taught by a nice doctor in California. Dean had always had a knack for sewing up gashes and setting broken bones but the unrelenting darkness of his own mind was unfixable. The problem came when the loneliness moved in and pushed out any slither of sanity or optimism that he had left. The constant anxiety crushed him and he was left with nothing but living from day to day in a state of misery and survival.

**

  
__Is there anyone left? Am I the only one?_ _   
__This is all my fault._ _

  
Dean sat up and brought his head to rest in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged gently until it hurt; _Am I still alive?_ He began to knock his fists against his forehead, barely at first and then gradually harder until he could feel his skull pounding. He banged and banged until he was sure it would bruise, but the voices remained.

  
 _ _You left the gate open.__  
“I know.” He whispered finally stopping, his fingers moving gently through his hair again.  
 _ _Traitor.__  
“I know.”

  
Feeling defeated and miserable, Dean laid his head against the rear window of the Impala. He felt along for the scratches left by Sam and him some 25 years ago, and his heart ached. He closed his eyes, begging for the tears to __just__ disappear but they didn’t and he couldn’t do anything to stop them.

  
What had Sam done?  
No. What had __he__ done?

**  
  
Sometime during the night Dean’s exhaustion took over and he lapsed into a restless slumber. It was only when the midday sun caused the Impala to become hot and stuffy that Dean finally began to stir, and although not entirely rested, he awoke feeling at least partially ready to function. Halfheartedly he climbed out of the car and stretched. The skin pulled tight along each of his ribs and his abdomen curving inward showing the unedited effects of his isolation. He subconsciously felt along each rib and the dip of his hip bones. He solemnly remembered a time when this was acceptable to him. It was a time when his hunger didn't register because, in his mind, the money was better spent elsewhere rather than on his stomach.

  
From there he went about his daily routine of reliving himself, checking his prehistoric, tin-can alarm system and checking his traps for any edible game. Everything was either untouched or empty with not so much as a paw print to indicate that any life remained in the surrounding area.

  
Dean’s stomach growled at the thought of another day without food. He gripped his arms tight along his stomach as he walked back to the car and willed the pain to go away in his heart, his stomach and his mind. He was left with no other choice but to return to his faithful Impala, curl up into her welcoming arms and turn his mind upside down trying to find ways to put __everything__ back together again.

**

  
With no working watch or cellphone the days gradually melted into weeks. By the time Dean began to entertain the thought of moving on he had no idea how long he had been out there or how many consecutive days it had been since he had last had a decent meal.

He looked over at his beloved car from his vantage point of an old oak tree. The thought of leaving his last link to his past behind was heartbreaking but at a time like this it was better to move and die fighting than to die a coward.

It was only right that he at least make a go of it even if he had lost all hope of anyone else being left alive. He owed it to the poor souls he let down and, most of all, he owed it to Sam.

  
Hesitantly he packed up what was left of his weapons and ammunition. He tucked his father’s journal into his jacket and, finally, said good bye to his long trusted Impala, her battery long since given out.  
This was the lesser of two evils, it was the only option left for him at this point and to leave it would mean rotting alone in the back seat of a car.


	2. 1990 - 1997; A decade of loving you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thought the walls were so high that no one could see a damn thing. He thought the charade was flawless; No one can figure this one out. But Sam could and he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short post-prologue wherein a background of Dean's young life is discussed.   
> It's short and sweet because specific moments will be revisited throughout.

From the moment Sam was brought into this world Dean had been there as his sworn protector. He had been there staring proudly and in awe as his father brought him up to the glass to look in at the abundance of newborns.

“That's him there, look.” John had said pointing at the only baby wrapped all in blue in the middle row.

“Wow.” Dean answer, wide eyed and smiling, “So small.”

“He's your baby brother, Dean. You gotta look after him.”

Dean looked up to his father.

“I love him Daddy. No one's going to hurt him.”

John ruffled his hair and chuckled.

“Not with you about they aren't.”

From that day forward Dean had played with him, poked him, shared toys with him, read to him and saved him.

Oh __God__ had he saved him.

  
He had saved him from the bullies in the school yard, from the Shtriga lurking in the dark, from his father on more than one occasion and, most of all, he saved him from the fire that broke their family apart. But he __couldn’t__ save his Mother and the guilt of it, even though he was only a child, burned at his heart. It grew and festered, and was only ever allowed out in the form of sleepless nights or a new line on his skin because, according to his father and the world, big boys didn’t cry.

  
Eventually it became apparent that he couldn’t save his father either. When their mother had tragically passed the man had practically enlisted them on a vendetta that carried them all over the country and broke up any sort of relationship Dean ever had. The only men he had in his life were jaded or down trodden hunters, and the only women appeared later in the form of well endowed hookers or school crushes. Although they had found something akin to friendship in Bobby Singer hunting isolated them, terrified them and left them with an inability to trust even the most kind-hearted of souls. Their father, either unknowingly or not, created demons that plagued Dean deep within his heart and his mind, and try as he might he couldn’t tear them down. Sometimes it grew so much that Dean begged the God he didn’t believe in for a way out.

But if you ever were to ask him about it he was fan- _ _fucking__ -tastic. He always was.

Dean built walls so high that no one could scale them. He marched to school and played the class clown all the while wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He fumbled in the back seat of cars with girls he didn't know the name of and fucked men for money when their resources ran low. He didn't know what he was or where he was going but he didn't care; So long as Sammy was safe.

He thought the walls were so high that no one could see a damn thing. He thought the charade was flawless; _No one can figure this one out._ But Sam could.

The younger Winchester had their mother's brains. He was smart and observant and loved his brother so damn much that sometimes he felt it would tear him apart. It was clear to him that Dean was __not__ okay. He was possibly as far away from mentally stable as one could expect a hunter to be. Sam noticed the lines on his brothers ankles, the persistent insomnia and his odd eating habits. He found himself worrying every-time Dean left the motel room until he was safety back where he belonged. There were nights in Dean’s teenage years when he wouldn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, covered in bruises and dirt and blood. Other day’s he barely made it outside unless asked and when their father packed up and left him in charge Dean barely went out at all. Sam would sometimes return back to their shady motel room and Dean would still be in bed, claiming he was feeling ‘ill’ and needed to be left alone. He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t showered, he hadn’t so much as put his socks on leaving it all too easy for Sam to spot the new marks on his skin.

Then there were the days where Dean was fine. He looked tired and dishevelled but he was __fine__ , he was __functioning__ and that was good enough for Sam. Those where the days that Sam cherished and made sure that Dean knew he was needed and loved by him, even if their Dad often made them both feel like soldiers instead of kids, even though they never managed to keep any friends, even though his mind was telling him otherwise; Dean was Sam’s hero.

Even if he didn’t understand everything that was going on or his brother’s motives, Sam picked up on and saved every detail in hopes that he could one day come across a valid hypothesis and solve it.

On the regular occurrences when John was on a hunt and the two boy’s were left to fend for themselves, Sam desperately tried to scale Dean's ten foot walls. Some day's were better than others. On the day’s that weren’t as good Sam was met with a snarky remark and, on one occasions, a firm fist to his jaw.


	3. 1995 - 1996: My Bones, my scaffolding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money was always their biggest issue when their father was away. That year was worse than the others though and the pressure tore at Dean's ten foot walls, driving him to breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ever a title need explained this is it. My Bones, my scaffolding refers to the line of poem I once wrote regarding my anorexia. My bones were the only thing keeping me up, much like a tradesman or a contractor using scaffolding. 
> 
> Dean Winchester is much the same at this point in his life although he wouldn't have you believe that.

For one reason or another there was a surge of paranormal activity throughout the states between '95 and '96. John, being the headstrong son-of-a-bitch that he was, took on every job he could find just to get a snippet of information leading to the demon that killed his wife. He left his children alone for unspecified weeks at a time just to get a glimpse of the bastard who tore his family apart when, in fact, he was just as much to blame for his family's demise as it was.

Of course John knew because there was really no denying it, he just refused to believe it. Each time he returned he found his son's looking thinner. Sometimes Dean had been beaten and when quizzed would state that he was fighting, although for what or with who John was unsure. On more than one occasion John found them thrown out of the motel after coming up short on the fee. It was on those nights that they would look up at their father with mixed expressions, Dean with his down trodden face and Sammy with pure hatred, but they would never say anything lest they rock the boat of a man who was so clearly near the edge. They would lift their bags and crawl into the back of the Impala thankful for the warmth she provided and the softness of her arms.

Money was always their biggest issue when their father was away. That year was worse than the others though and the pressure tore at Dean's ten foot walls, driving him to breaking point.

**

The young Winchesters were approaching the monthly mark on their independence. This time John had fled to Iowa in hopes of coming up with a lead on the Demon and had stopped to take out a nest of vampires in the procress. He had said two weeks tops but they all knew that wasn't quite true.

It wasn't unusual for the food supply to run low after such a long time alone. Both boys were still meant to be in high-school and decent part time work was hard to come by with no valid experience or permanent address.

This didn't stop Dean however.

Before his birthday in January of '96 he decided that it would be best if he take it upon himself to earn a little extra cash. Despite the effort Dean’s short lived career as a drug runner only earned him a few bruises and $20 more than what he had started with. Drug pushing hadn't been his forte, but then neither had pool hustling or the unspeakable things he had done in the back seat of cars. It was after the latter that he would crawl home with nothing more than $50 and an urge to climb into the bathtub and drown himself.

Inevitably they found themselves back to stale bread and coffee. Dean, true to form, took the worst of it refusing little more than water for days just so that Sam didn't miss out. He felt unbearably ashamed that he couldn't even do the simplest of things and keep his brother from going hungry. His disgust ran so deep that his stomach churned and contorted in anguish. It was the worst feeling of all, not the hunger, not the pain from the brawls or the sex, but the guilt that he couldn't even do the __one__ job he was put here for; Look after his little brother.

Sam knew what Dean was doing,he always did. Dean had slowed down, he was moving around the motel less and had all but stopped leaving their room. He had gotten thinner too, especially around his shoulder blades, and covered himself in as many jackets and comforters he could find. It was so painfully obvious to Sam and yet Dean was under the illusion that he was fine. It was all __fine__.

**

Dean was perched on the couch sorting through their weapons and cleaning guns in much the same meticulousness as their father would. He didn't even flinch as Sam closed the motel door and threw his back pack beneath the coat rack.

“Hi Dean.” Sam chirped as he perched himself on the recliner.

“Mmm.” Dean barely looked up. He continued to clean his pistol without so much as glancing towards his younger sibling.

Sam studied him carefully, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes and his chapped lips.

“You haven't eaten today.” Sam stated matter-of-factly.

Dean gave his brother a sideways glare before returning it back to his firearm.

“Did you sleep last night?” Sam pressed.

“Don't.” Dean answered firmly.

“Don't what?”

“Don’t start me Sammy.” he muttered.

“This isn't healthy y'know? You gotta eat and sleep sometime.”

Dean didn't answer, he just continued to polish the steel of his pistol with excellent precision.

“We have some cereal and milk. Or cans of soup. Or-”

“You're only home from school, Sam. I don't really want to hear this.”

“But Dean -”

“Stop.” Dean barked. He scowled up at Sam from his seat and clenched his jaw, “I got us into this mess Sammy. __I'm__ responsible for you, __I'm__ responsible for what you eat. If I couldn't bring in some damn money to feed ya’, then __I__ take the hit. Just the way it’s gotta be.”

“We have enough. Dad’ll-”

“What did I just say!?” Dean tossed his gun behind him and put his head in his hands, “I just told you. There’s not enough to last us ‘til Dad get’s here. I’m tryin’ ta help you Sammy, can’t you understand that? I’m tryin’ ta do my __God – Damned__ job.”

As daring as Sam was he knew when he had pushed Dean too far. He left him and retreated to their shared bedroom in an attempt to avoid any further conflict. He considered calling Bobby for help and, although he knew the old drunk would come running, he just couldn't bare to do it. Dean would never forgive him for getting Bobby involved, it would just drive him further away and cause more guilt and shame than was already present.

Sam heard Dean step onto the porch for a cigarette, a recent habit which only surfaced when John wasn't around, and took the opportunity to peek out at his older brother. There Dean sat, cigarette between his lips and knife in his hands. Sam's heart stopped; he knew what was coming next.

Neatly and with as much grace and precision as a surgeon Dean pressed down on the flesh of his calf and dragged the blade sideways. Sam could see the blood immediately begin to seep from the wound and watched as Dean went for another, and another and, finally, another.

Sam's breath hitched in his throat. He was smart enough to know that this wasn't how healthy people dealt with their problems. There were kids in school that did this for fun, while others did it because they didn't know what else to do; So which was Dean?

The knife was wiped on Dean's trousers and put to the side as he reached for another stick of tobacco.

Sam was lost. He didn't know what he could possible do to help his brother. In that moment he prayed for his father to come home, something he had never once done before, because at least then he knew it might stop.

**

It was days later before anything of note happened. Sam had went to school as normal and Dean had went about his routine of sorting their weaponry and trying to gather up money. It was Saturday at around 3.30 am when Sam was woken by the soft sound of sobs muffled by running water. It wasn't unfamiliar, in fact it was a regular occurrence and not just when rations where running low.

Sighing, Sam quietly crept out of the room and gently knocked on the bathroom door.

“D-Dean? Dean can I help? Please?” He pleaded, daring finally to break his silence.

There was no answer, just uncontrollable sobbing.

“I'm coming in okay?”

Sam didn't wait for an answer, he jigged the lock and gently pushed open the door. The image of his brother curled in the corner of the filthy motel shower, with just a shirt and underwear has never left Sam’s mind. The way he held himself in a tight ball, as if he were trying to become so tiny that he would disappear, reminded Sam of the images he’d seen of babies in the womb.

Dean made no attempt to get him out, he just laid his forehead on his knees and let out a soft whine.

As Sam entered the shower he realised the water was ice cold and it was only when he made an attempt to alter the temperature that Dean uttered a quiet ‘No.’

“You’ll get sick if it stays this cold.” Sam stated, “I gotta change it.”

“ _ _No-__ “Dean answered breathlessly. “ _ _P-please.__ It - it helps.”

Hesitantly Sam ducked under the water and sat beside his brother. The cold water was horrible, it felt like millions of little icicles hitting his skin at once,but he brought his small body close to Deans and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

Dean was shaking and trying desperately to catch his breath. Eventually his sobbing dwindled to small infrequent whines which shook his entire body.

“Dean what’s wrong?”

“I-I just-” he took a deep breath, “ I just couldn't breathe.”

“So you took a cold shower?” Sam was unconvinced.

“It- it stops it.”

“Stops what?”

“The __feeling__.” Dean let out a soft whine, “It quiets it for a while. O-otherwise I can’t breathe.”

“Dean-”

“I feel like I'm drowning Sammy.”

“Food’ll help, right? I can get -”

“No. I fucked up, Sammy. Don’t you get it? I fucked up, not you, _me_. I have to live with that.” Dean began to sob again, “I have to live with that.”

Sam didn't press any further. He pulled Dean tighter into his arms and tried to comfort him as best he could. The time slipped by and both boys grew colder until eventually Dean settled. When he showed signs of relaxing Sam turned off the shower and much to his relief the water shortly stopped.

“Come on Dean.” He coaxed his brother up, gently pulling him by the elbow.

With minimal prompting Dean did as he was told. He dried himself, changed into fresh clothes and crawled into bed.

“I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean for you to see me that way.” He whispered as Sam crawled in next to him.

“It’s fine. Let me help okay? If that happens again, just let me help.”

“It’s not meant to be about me Sam, okay? It’s you, “Dean muttered, his words slightly slurred with sleep, “It’s always gotta be you.”

**

Sometime the next morning Dean sat up in bed and contemplated the events earlier that day. He had never intended for Sam to see him so fragile and even the thought caused a stinging in his throat. How could he have been so careless?

_“ _He's gonna' think you're crazy.”__

Dean made a grimace at the voice in his head. The first time it had happened he thought it was a fluke or delusions from the starvation. Then it became a regular thing. They piped up when he was doing the most normal of tasks like washing the dishes or doing their laundry. They especially liked to speak up when he was in a particularly bad place and sometimes the only way to quiet them was to harm himself. They seemed to like that.

_“ _He's gonna' tell Dad.”__ _One uttered._

“Stop.” Dean pleaded through his teeth. He didn't know what they were, if they were really there or just his own self loathing, but these __voices__ always seemed to know just what to say.

_“ _It's gonna' be cookoos nest for you boy. And they'll never come back.”__

“Please stop.”

_“ _Then there's no runnin' from us or the monsters under your bed. No more runnin', no more fightin'; just eternity in the slammer.”__

“Fuck off!” Dean barked. He pounded his fists into his forehead and begged and pleaded with the voices to stop. They laughed at him and repeated the same old nonsense.

_“ _You're gonna burn out, boy, and there's no comin' back.”__

_Over the din he heard the click of the door opening._

“Dean?”

He didn't even look up, he just stopped and prayed that this wasn't happening. He felt the hands of his brother pull his arms to his side, he heard the questions and the hurt in his voice but he just couldn't focus on any of it. He was so __damn__ hungry and so __damn__ cold and so __fucking__ done with it all.

“You gotta' stop this.” Sam bawled.

He grasped either side of Dean's head, ensuring that it was only him that his brother could see. He needed Dean to hear this.

The older boy looked vile. His eyes were sunken into his skull and surrounded by dark circles, his skin was waxy and blemished from crying, and Sam just couldn't see his brother beneath any of it.

Dean didn't fight him again, he just stared back.

“You have to stop all of this. You gotta' do for me Dean. If not for yourself or anyone else, do it for __me__ , because I __need__ you. Without you I'm just Skully and you can't have me walkin' around without my Mulder.”

Dean felt his heart shattering at the break in his brother's voice.

“I-I'm sorry.” he uttered, “I don't know what happened.”

Sam flung his arms around Dean's shoulders.

“Don't be. Don't __ever__ be sorry for feeling this way.”

“I'm just so damn hungry Sammy. That's all. It's fucking with my head.” Dean lied.

Sam held on to him tighter, feeling the bones of his shoulder blades through his thin night wear and faint beating of his heart against his sternum.

Dean gently rubbed at his brothers back as he sobbed. The guilt swirled and settled in the bottom of his gut. It wasn't meant to be this way, Sam wasn't meant to feel anything, he was just meant to be a reasonably normal teenager. He didn't need to look after his mentally deranged brother, because that's all he was; bothersome and deranged.

“It's gonna be alright Sammy.” Dean whispered, “I promise __I'm__ gonna be alright.”

At this point Dean would have said anything just to ease Sam's pain. He would have told him the sky was pink and that Mom was coming home if that's what it took. He couldn't bare the thought that he had put them here, on this bed, holding each other and crying. He couldn't imagine what his father would think if he saw them.

"You gotta' keep this between us Sammy. I know that's a lot to put on you but I couldn't face Dad if he knew about any of this."

Sam moved back and furrowed his brow in response.

"Who cares what he thinks!? He's never here, he's putting you under pressure to keep me, to keep __us__ , alive. He doesn't give a shit about us so long as that monsters still out there."

"He does-"

"No he doesn't Dean! You're sick man and if you need help then we gotta' get you it."

"I'm not s _ _ick__. I'm hungry and tired, that's all that was. Didn't you hear me?"

"And every other time?"

Dean paused. His heart sank with the realisation that Sam had known about this happening before. Subconsciously he tugged at the duvet covers, pulling them further up his body to cover his abdomen.

"I know about __that__ too Dean." Sam whispered gesturing to his entire lower body, "This isn't just a hunger thing, is it?"

"I get numb sometimes, it happens to everyone, and rather than take it out on you or on anyone else I just take it out on myself. That's all it is." Dean answered sternly.

They both stared at each other for a number of minutes, neither knowing quite what to say. Dean felt his heart speed up against his ribs. All of this was a little too close to the bone.

Sam, on the other hand, knew his limits.

"Okay Dean." He sighed as he got to his feet, " But you should know that I love you, and you're doing a great job despite what you think."

Dean nodded in response and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“You should get some rest.”

Sam left without any further persistence into Dean's personal space. The topic was only approached in passing from then on with only brief discussions relating to Dean's eating habits and mental state. Sam never informed their father of that night nor did he speak to Bobby or anyone else for that matter. Dean became more secretive and waited until Sam was gone or he was able to find himself a safe place before hurting himself or releasing any pent up emotion. He became increasingly isolated in his own depression and yet he managed to completely conceal it. He feigned wellness, he participated in the usual brotherly brawls and hunted with his father when needed.

He was fully functional and yet completely broken.


	4. 2001 – 2002: A family affair.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby has a heart to heart with Dean which end's in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've been adulting, albeit badly.

**2001 – 2002.**

 

Dean’s head nodded onto his chest as his vision became increasingly disrupted by unconsciousness. It had been just over a day since he last had gotten any sleep and even then it had been a measly three hours. He wearily reached for his caffeine pills and followed three with the remainder of his coffee. The energy would slowly filter into his veins and within fifteen minutes he would be able to function marginally better than a shambling corpse.

 

It had been this way for as long as he could remember and Sam’s disappearance had only made matters worse. He had functioned fine and then it all went to hell. The four hours a night had quickly become little more than two or three every two days; with this the deterioration of his mind followed and he became increasingly prone to hellish delusions. All this hadn’t gone unnoticed by ‘Uncle’ Bobby and of course the man was willing to do anything to stop it.

 

“If your boy’s not sitting up in front of the TV all night, he’s down in my basement cleaning my guns. I appreciate the help but that boy needs to sleep.” Bobby worried to John. It was ten past midnight and Bobby had just gotten in from fixing up one of his beat up old trucks. Dean was still in the basement polishing the artillery and drowning himself in coffee.

 

“Which one?”

 

“Don’t play the edjit, John. You know which one I’m yappin’ about.”

 

He could hear the weary man sigh on the other end of the phone.

 

Dean’s sleepless nights had begun shortly after he turned eleven and no matter how far he was pressed Dean refused to disclose why. It was partially the fault of insomnia that much they knew, but there was something else that made Dean almost too terrified to close his eyes.

 

“Get him a job and he’ll be fine, Bobby. He’s probably just bored out of his tree. “John suggested.

 

“I just gave him one last week. He was out and back again within seventy two hours. I have nothing else for him. What'd’ya want me to do? Plant a ghost in my yard and let him chase it in circles for a couple of hours?”

 

“The job mustn’t have been a big deal if he made it back within seventy two hours.”

 

“It was a nest of vamps. He drove out the Tuesday morning and made it back by Friday nine a.m. If he can take down an entire nest in that short space of time I can bet you any money his head didn’t hit a pillow once.”

 

“What are you getting at Bobby?”

 

“He doesn’t sleep, he barely eats and I haven’t held a conversation with him since Sam left."

 

John sighed heavily into the receiver. He pictured the haggard excuse for a son he had left with Bobby little over two weeks ago and considered, once again, the possibility of seeking professional treatment for his behaviour.

 

“He’ll get over it.” John lied.

 

“Don’t bullshit me. That boy’s in serious trouble and you know it.”

 

“What do you expect me to do? I’ve tried everything.”

 

“Tried everything? My ass you have. He needs to see a doctor, John, and you gotta get back here and help me get him there.”

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

“John-“

 

“I said I’ll think about it Bobby.” John barked before abruptly ending the call.

 

Bobby angrily slammed the phone off the table. It was the typical Winchester denial he had expected but it still made his blood boil all the same. Bobby knew he couldn’t watch Dean sulk around the house like this any longer, hell, it had already been several years and the man was only growing more distant by the day.

Bobby knew he had to take control of the situation in the absence of John. He made a fresh pot of coffee, put on his game face and scurried down into the basement to join Dean. As expected the man was carefully ensuring each rifle, pistol and knife was shined to perfection.

 

“Made you another cup of coffee, I thought you could do with the top up.”

 

Dean nodded slowly otherwise ignoring Bobby’s presence.

 

“How’re you doin?” Bobby asked, “It’s just I’ve been noticing you haven’t been sleeping much. Your Dad and I were thinking of maybe getting you to a doctor.”

 

Dean continued to concentrate on the dagger between his fingers, completely ignoring Bobby.

 

“Your Dad’s worried, Dean. I’m worried.”

 

His slow, polishing movements along the flat of the blade didn’t so much as falter.

 

“Dean! Earth to ground control?!” Bobby snapped.

 

“Don’t try and bullshit me about Dad. The man gives as much a shit about me as he does about the next presidential election.” Dean didn’t so much as lift his head, he just stared at the now gleaming blade in his hands,” And as for this doctor shit; forget about it. I’m fine.”

 

“Horseshit.” Bobby barked in response, “You’ve been shuffling around like a god damned zombie for weeks now. I’m willing to bet your head hasn’t hit a pillow for more than six hours a night since you were a kid. I can see right through you boy, don’t think for a moment I can’t.”

 

"Bobby," Dean sighed, his shoulders physically dropping," Just leave it, alright?"

 

"Damnit boy, I can't leave it! You're a whole bag of lost screws and I can't watch you like that any-more." Bobby gently placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, "You can't continue like this."

 

"I can, and you know why? Because I've been doing it for years, and I'm still standing. Sammy leaving won't make an inch of a difference."

 

Dean shrugged off the older man's hand and stood up to leave. Bobby, for the first time, felt speechless. What could he possibly say? The boy was in his twenties, too old to be forced to undertake treatment he didn't want, and not bad enough to be carried away by men in white coats. So what in the hell were he and John meant to do?

 

“We're just lookin out for ya.” Bobby said softly.

 

“Yeah well don't waste your time.”

 

Dean bounced up the stairs of the basement before Bobby could respond further. He lifted his winter coat from one of the hooks in the kitchen, threaded his arms through and swiftly left the house. He didn't know where he was going or why he had been in such a panic to leave, but he had just needed the conversation to end.

 

\- - * - -

 

The never ending maze of Bobby's scrap yard was familiar to Dean, and so was the perfect place to escape Bobby's ridicule. He had often wondered through the debris enjoying the solitude of the vehicle's no-man's-land, the silence acting as a dimmer to his otherwise busy mind .There were, however, occasions when the quiet made room for the disembodied voices to scream louder and louder until he was so overcome with guilt that he could barely stand upright from the weight.

 

“ _He was lying.”_

 

“Shut up.” Dean uttered.

 

“ _John doesn't care. John barely knows you exist. Looking after Sam was your only job and you blew it. Why would he give a fuck about you?”_

 

Dean felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes. He gritted his teeth and drove his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop the sensation from building any further. They were just trying to taunt him, they just wanted a reaction.

 

“ _But Bobby, well, there's a different story. You're breakin' his heart, and he don't know just how fucked up you are. You'll never get rid of this, of us.”_

 

“You're not real.” Dean took several deep breaths.

 

“ _Nothin' is gonna drive us out. No doctors, no medication, no therapy; nothin but the pain can stop us. Do it.”_

 

“No.”

 

“ _Do it!”_

 

“I don't want to.”

 

“ _Do it!”_

 

Dean drove his fist into the passenger window of one of the car wrecks. He screamed and kicked the door several times before falling backwards onto the ground. There he sat, his bloody hand held within the other and tears staining his cheeks.

 

“Is this what you want?” he hissed.

 

“ _You know what we want. Don't play dumb.”_

 

For as long as he could remember there had been a gnawing feeling deep inside his bones, and no matter how he hard he had tried to push it away it had just gotten worse. He couldn't count how many times he had contemplated just checking out. 100? 1,000? There were evenings he had locked himself in dingy motel bathrooms, hopped up on caffeine and alcohol, with a pistol in his mouth and ready to bite a bullet. Other days he found himself looking over the edge of bridges and wondering what it felt like to hit the water so fast that your organs crushed into your flesh.

 

What ever this feeling was, because depression never quite fitted, it was like an anvil of weight on your chest, and no matter how much you said _'Stop'_ all it replied was  _'No.'_

 

“ _Don't be a coward.”_

 

Slowly Dean reached for the knife strapped to his ankle. He awkward held it in his left hand, taking in the feeling of it against his palm. It would be quick if he did it right.

 

“ _Do it!”_

 

He rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and began to cut deep lines into his flesh. This was better than the alternative, giving in had never been an option even in the darkest of hours; He just wasn't built that way. 

 

“ _This works just as well.”_ Dean answered through bore teeth, _“I'm not givin' in. I'll find a way to get you outta my head, but now I just want ya' to fuck off.”_

 

By the time Dean was finished his jeans had become covered in thick, dark blood. He found himself deeply exhausted and light headed, but content. His mind had fallen quiet for the time being and, really, that was all ever asked for. He threw the knife to the ground, looked up to the clouds and softly chuckled. This was all he ever wanted. Peace.

He knew it was stupid to try and stand, he was starved and had lost a great deal of blood, so he carefully crawled towards the car he had earlier smashed. He propped himself against the cool metal and let his head lull onto his shoulder.

 

For the first time in two days it was just him and no one else. It was silence.

 

Time had become motionless to Dean and so he had no idea how long he was out there before he felt Cain, Bobbie's bull mastiff, lick his face. He heard the dog whine and the sound of Bobbie's boots on the gravel. By the time he had found the courage to open his eye's Bobby was making his way towards him between the grave's of metal.

 

Bobby sighed and let his shoulders sag.

 

“What in the hell have you done boy?” He questioned.

 

Dean didn't answer, he just attempted to get up of the ground and cover his now throbbing wounds. Wordlessly, Bobby gave him a hand. Seeing Dean in such a way, covered in his own blood from head to foot and cowering,  made the older man's heart sting.

 

“I ain't fuckin' with you when I say you ought to see a doctor,” Bobby put his hands on either one of Dean's shoulders and looked him in the eye, “I'm not doin' it to hurt you. I'm scared for your safety, Dean. Look at this, look at what's happenin' here and tell me you're okay.”

 

“Bob-” Dean started, before promptly dropping his gaze to his bloody hands.

 

“You coulda killed yourself.”

 

The younger man chuckled, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

 

“I wanted to.” He cried, “I wanted to so bad, Bobby. But I can't let them win.”

 

Bobby pulled him into a hug and rubbed his back as he sobbed into his coats lapel. Cane whined and nudged Dean's calf in comfort. Bobby didn't know what in hell to do, or who in the hell _they_ were. All he knew was that his heart was breaking for Dean, and he was so _fucking_ scared of waking up one morning to find him with a bullet through his brain.

 

“Comin'. Let's go back to house and I'll fix us some coffee, eh?” Bobby prompted.

 

Slowly they made their way back, Cain bringing up the rear. Dean refused coffee and sat patiently as Bobby fixed his wounds. Neither spoke, and in fact they retired to their beds without so much as a good night. Everything they wanted to say was in the way in which they looked at each other; Sad and clueless. Once alone Dean lay in the silence of his room and begged a God he didn't to believe in for the strength to keep on going.

 

Or the courage to make it stop.

 


	5. 2003; "I hope this s***t kills me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean continues his spiral downwards, trying to find anything that will make him feel normal again. What he find's is something much worse. 
> 
> *WARNING: Drug use.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me to a pretty dark place to write. I have the next chapter nearly done, and really this fic is proving emotional and close to home in a lot of ways. But, needs must, and I will continue to do my best for you all in writing this. Feedback is my motivation and makes me feel like I am doing the genre of angsty drabble justice. 
> 
> Note this is only the first part of the introduction of Dean's drug use, and the first part of 2003.

**2003 – March.**

Somewhere in North Dakota on a cold, concrete floor Dean hunched among a wreckage of plastic papers and fresh syringes, spoon in one hand and lighter in the other. He hovered the flame beneath the metal and watched as the powder bubbled to liquid.

This was the last time.

He carefully drew the liquidised heroin in through the tip of the needle, pulled tight on the tourniquet on his bicep and felt around for a healthy vein. It took half an hour and several attempts, but Dean eventually succeeded and gingerly plunged the drug deep into his veins.

This was the last time.

The syringe dropped to the floor. He lay back and sighed with relief as he felt the euphoria and the numbness move through his body. It was a blanket of heat wrapped around him, a feeling of pure, unadulterated joy, a tingling in his fingers and toes. It was birds singing, it was a first kiss; it was true love. It didn't matter that he was alone, isolated and broke as hell. He had the only thing he needed.

But this was _definitely_ his last time.

 

– * –

 

**May.**

An abrupt smashing and a string of profanities drew Dean out of his intoxicated fantasy just enough to lift his head. Through clouded eyes he glanced briefly around the room, taking in it's stripped walls and rough, wooden floor boards. Wind whistled through the broken glass, sending small fragments crashing to the floor and causing him to flinch. By the stairs Dean could make out the figures of two junkies fighting over a stained mattress that was no more fit for a ghoul than a human. But then they were barely human, they were bottom of the food chain; they were the lowest of low.

It was the middle of spring and yet everything around him was shrouded in cold; the building, the blankets and even the people.

Even Dean.

He rubbed the haze from his eyes before attempting to sit up onto his elbows and, not without fail, managing to bring himself to his feet. The other occupants barely registered his movement as he began to slowly check for his belongings before wrapping himself in a thin blanket, and sitting back down upon the floor. He drew one knee upwards to be used as a stable surface for rolling cigarettes, while the other lay neatly tucked beneath, acting as a trap for any tobacco his shaking hands managed to drop

 

“You got a light?”

Dean looked up at the emaciated, filthy woman before him. She was haggard and broken, with teeth resembling a monster and eyes so hollow she may as well be dead. But none of those things _actually_ registered with Dean, in fact she didn’t appear as any more pathetic than he was. He reached into his pockets and handed her a packet of motel matches.

“Keep ‘im. I have plen’y.” he answered waving his hand for her to go away.

His words were slurred together, his voice rough and alien. It had been days since he had last spoken to anyone in the den, weeks since he had heard from his father, and months since his last conversation with Sam. Dean had stopped calling when Sam had started bitching about his apparent lack of interest in his own future, or anyone else’s for that matter.

As far as Dean was concerned he didn’t have much of future. Just hunting and, as of four months prior, ‘ _chasing the dragon_ ’ which would ultimately result in his death. At least that was the plan.

As if on que the shrill sound of Dean’s cell phone echoed throughout the room. He abandoned his rolling and began to search his mattress and comforter for any sign of the flip phone. It was Pastor Jim this time, possibly auditioning for the role of Bobby who usually called him 3 to 4 times a week. Although it was rude to ignore a man of God, whom had nothing but good intentions, Dean didn’t feel much like explaining his behaviour, and so the device was sent back into the depths behind him.

He continued to roll in an effort to ignore the buzzing in his brain. The injection sites spread around his body were itching for something stronger but his current financial predicament just wouldn’t allow it. He knew it was time to get back out there and suck cock for his cravings, but his motivation was running low and he was weak from hunger and dehydration.

When the nicotine failed to curb the need Dean made the executive decision to return to the motel room, not only for something resembling a healthy sleep, but to avoid temptation.

"I can stop any time,”he thought as he gathered himself, “Look, I’m walking away. I’m not an addict.”

“ _Junkie.”_ Spat the first voice, always a man.

“ _Spineless coward.”_ Sang the second, forever changing.

“Go ta hell.” Dean uttered wearily.

He stumbled down several flights of stairs, avoiding any and all contact from any of the other drug addicts or pushers. He just needed some sleep and he could get back to the hunt, that was all, just some rest and he would be right as rain. This time had just been a slip.

This and every other time before that.

 

– * –

 

**June.**

Dean was well antiquated with the notion of monsters and fear, but never like this. Addiction brought with it several kinds of fear all at once operating at varying degrees. The fear of having no money, the fear of having no dope and the fear of being busted by the cops, but never the fear of overdosing.

“ _I hope this shit kills me”_ was a frequently uttered term among junkies, not hoping for death but not entirely ruling it out either. Dean was no exception. 

His day's rolled into weeks as he lulled himself to sleep with one drug or another, a few glasses of whiskey or a shot of that month's powder, and slept late into the afternoon when he would do it all over again. He conned, grifted and fucked for money to sustain only his habit and the tank of his car. The days when he was sober enough to drive were the worst, but he couldn't stick around for long least his father or Bobby roll into town.

He was lost, alone and isolated from everything he had once had. The guilt was deafening, the pain over whelming. Each time Dean shot up it numbed it for a while, until he came down and he would feel worse and completely wrapped up in remorse. The vicious cycle continued day in and day out, constantly chasing the feelings away only to be confronted with bigger and meaner one's in the cold light of day.

But it was all he had, it was what he had become.

It was all he would ever be.

 


	6. 2003: Promise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally speaks to Sam after months and, before giving up the drugs, decides on one last binge. Things take a horrible turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know, another so soon. Happy Valentines.

**July 2003.**

  
_**“Dean, it’s Jim. What have you gotten yourself into? Bobby's been going crazy trying to find you! Last we heard –“** _

_**“Boy you had better pick up this God damned phone and answer me! Your daddy’s been on my back about you wanderin’off! Edjit!”** _

_**“You had better be lying in a grave somewhere boy. I swear to God I'd rather you back here, takin up my couch, silent as a God damned church!”** _

_**“Dean...*sigh*...Please come back.”** _

The deeper he dove into his mail box the more his chest tightened. It had been months since anyone had called him, he was lonely and, admittedly, addicted.

He couldn’t walk away any more, the sweet scent of the drug always brought him back.

He didn’t know exactly where he was, or where he had been, but he had 150 dollars in his pocket, a trail of scars on one arm,no shirt and a nasty taste in his mouth. His head was swimming in the aftermath of his recent high and he couldn’t quite remember where he had left his car, or if she was even nearby.

Everything had gone _so_ wrong.

Dean flicked through various texts messages, the most recent of which consisted of meet ups with dealers and other addicts. He continued on until he found his last conversation with Sam. It had been a brief text exchange sometime in November about how they each were doing, nothing immaculate or ground breaking. No bridges were built nor burnt and yet neither had spoken to each other in several months, partly because Dean had been screening calls and partly because Sam had grown tired of his petty pity party. At least that's how Dean saw it.

“ _ **Happy Birthday Sammy.**_ ” He typed because what sort of brother would be be if he didn't at least attempt contact on Sam's special day?

No matter how far gone Dean was, no matter if he had forgotten where he was or where he had left his car, Dean could _never_ forget Sam's birthday.

He flicked his phone shut and continued to walk. The collar of his jacket, which he still somehow owned, was pulled up against the wind, hands in his pockets and a dull ache in his head. A short time later he came across his impala stowed awkwardly in the parking lot of one his more frequently visited motels. The memory of himself pushed belly first against a wall while he was fucked by some dark stranger came filtering back. He flinched at the thought and climbed into the back seat of his baby, welcoming her comforting arms.

Despite his diminishing high and the need he would no doubt have for more, Dean felt much to exhausted and sore to partake in another hit. Lying in the back seat, however, was proving much too painful, and no matter which way he turned his bones seemed to light up with aches like never before. He hissed as his skin itched and writhed beneath his clothing, and suddenly Dean was dying to pull himself apart. No matter how he tried to push the thoughts aside, because it really had been much too long since he had hurt himself while outside of a high, Dean simply couldn't ignore the burning need to slice himself to pieces.

With very little hesitation he jumped up, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a box of neatly kept throwing knives. He lay back against the seat and sliced a neat row of lines across his exposed ribs. They stung and as the blood dripped from one down into the other the pain only intensified. But that was all fine with Dean.

“ _Junkie whore._ ” Sang the disembodied voice, not unlike that of his fathers.

“Not now.” Dean spat through gritted teeth.

“ _Go deeper. Why do it at all if you won't go deeper!?_ ” The second resembled a woman today, no one familiar.

He clenched his jaw and drew another hard line into his chest. It burned unlike the others and brought tears to his eyes.

“ _Better?_ ”

Dean watched in awe as the blood dripped down his body. He swore he could see his pulse in the soft ' _pump pump_ ' of the wound. But it wasn't enough; no where near it.

Just as he was about to take one to the skin beneath the crook of his elbow his phone began to ring. Dean had every intention of letting it go to voice mail and continuing the massacre of his body, but something compelled him to at least check the caller ID.

 **S A M** flashed across the screen.

Dean's heart almost stopped. He felt faint , apprehensive and excited all at once. Finally he could talk to his brother, his best friend, after all this time. Sheepishly he flipped open the device and, with a trembling hand, brought it to his ear.

“H-hello?” He answered coyly.

“Dean!?” Sam’s all but shouted, ““Dean, are you there?!”

Everything that had happened, all the endless binges, the rush of the drugs, the prostitution, it all seemed so distant and foreign when Sam spoke. Suddenly he was two years younger and stretched across Bobbie’s, couch while Sam bitched about this job and that. Tears pricked at the edge of Dean’s eyes and he bit hard on his tongue just to stop himself from crying.

“Y-yeah its me Sammy.” Dean’s voice broke, the tears edged their way down his cheeks, “I-I’m here.”

“What’s going on, Dean?” Sam quizzed, “ Where are you, man? I’m worried about you. We’re all worrying so damn much. You haven’t called – “

“I-I know Sammy.”

“Talk to me man.”

“Not today. It's your birthday.”

“No. No it's not Dean. You know that.”

Dean fell silent. How had he gotten the day, even the month so long? It was May wasn't it? The weeks and months all seemed to roll into one lately, so much so he wasn't even sure what year it was.

"Oh fuck." Dean inhaled sharply and clenched the wound on his chest, “I-I'm so sorry man."

"It's okay Dean." Sam sighed,"Things have been weird man. It's really okay. Just talk to me."

"I - I can't lay this on you.”

“Lay what on me Dean? I'm you're brother, we're meant to be here for each other, remember?”

Dean heard the hitch in Sam's throat and he knew enough about the young man to know he was crying, albeit silently.

“You could've called Dean.” Sam continued.

“I  _could've_ called?” Out of no where Dean felt anger rise into his chest. How dare Sam accuse him of not calling when he had waited for anything, even a _fucking_ post-it, for months after he had left for college, “How 'bout you, swanning off to Standford and forgetting I fucking existed? Is it too much to even send a text Sam? Even a fucking postcard would have done it. I had to go missing for you to give a rat's ass. How can you just forget about us like that?”

“Dad forgot about _me_ the moment I walked out that door!” Sam barked, “But I didn’t forget about you. When I called Bobby and found out you had went M.I.A I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to expect when I picked up the phone. If I’m honest I was afraid to call in case I didn’t get an answer at all.”

“Well you got one. Congratulations you’ve found me.” Dean clenched his teeth tight, forcing himself not to full on sob, not now, not in front of Sam. His defenses had become so utterly disheveled in such a short space of time, that he even wondered about the fragility of his own mental and emotional health lately.

Silence continued from the other end broken only by the occasional sigh or sniffle. With each passing second the pit in Dean’s stomach grew larger. Anger gave way to shame, and he was left with the excessive need to shrink away to nothing. If only the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

What ever’s going on, what ever you’re going through, please go to Bobby. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I promise you I’ll visit as soon as the semester is over. I promise Dean.” Sam coaxed before beginning to sob.

Dean’s heart shattered. He imagined Sam sitting alone in a crappy student dorm, alone and bawling into his one of his oversized shirts. He was probably making himself sick with worry and thinking the absolute worst.

“I love you Sammy, but I-I can’t.” Dean whispered, “I can’t go back to Bobby like this.”

“Bobby won’t give a shit how you come home as long as you’re there man.”

“And Dad? If he see’s me like this I’m done for.”

“Forget about him.” Sam didn’t so much as hesitate, “You don’t need his approval, Dean. You need his help and if he can’t give you that without being a condescending bastard, then that’s his problem.”

Dean gently lay across the back seat of the impala, suddenly feeling over whelmed and sick from the idea of asking Bobby for help. He swallowed a threatening lump in his throat.

“Look man, I gotta go. I have class soon and I don't want to show up lookin' like someone's just died. But please promise me you’ll go to Bobby.”

Dean bit his lip.

“ _Please_ Dean.”

He sighed, “Okay Sammy. I promise.”

“I love you Dean. Call me when you get to Bobby’s, okay?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, uttered a response and closed the call. In the silence he contemplated his next move. Go back to Bobby and go through the DT’s, or ignore Sam altogether?

Within 30 minutes the palpitations started, closely follow by vice like cramps in his stomach and muscles. Hell was being unleashed throughout his body, something he had experienced on several unforgettable occasions. Suddenly Dean knew he couldn't do this, at least not today.

“Just one more and I’ll be ready.” he told himself.

Dean carefully shifted from the back seat and stepped out into the parking lot. In the chill of the morning Dean could have swore he was much too warm, but at 41 degrees that couldn’t be right.

The building was littered with the usual suspects, including his dealer, a short and chunky man who was never without his faithful attack dog. Without any hesitation Dean made his purchase, found a safe place for it’s administration, and quickly found himself floating back to blissful ignorance.

– – * – –

The first thing Dean felt when he awoke was the pain within his throat. It radiated from the center of his trachea and stung when he swallowed. The constant beep-beep from a foreign, unknown source came next, followed by the realisation that he wasn’t in Kansas any more.

As he opened his eyes he was blinded by the bright lights of what could only be described as heaven. But this wasn’t heaven, and God was not there to give him freedom.

“Good afternoon.”

Slowly Dean focused on the young nurse fixing his central line.

“Whe-” Dean began to speak but was cut short by the intense pain in his throat.

The nurse smiled solemnly.

“You’re at Mercy General. You had quite a lot of junk in your system when the paramedics picked you up.”

“I-I don’t u-understand.”

“Your buddies dumped you on the sidewalk when you started hallucinating and the police called it in. You’d be in handcuffs right now if it wasn’t for your uncle.” The woman smiled to herself, “You have some good family, kid.”

Dean felt his face turn hot with a cocktail of shame, guilt and despair.

“I’ll fix you up and get him sent in, yeah? Might make you feel better before it gets worse.”

She poked at the wires surrounding his body, changed tubing and took vitals before finally exiting to find his savior. Dean waited in a haze of anticipation and opiates. He was preparing himself for a sea of profanities from his father when, accompanied by a grim looking physician, Bobby appeared in the doorway. Tears welled in Dean’s eyes and, without the slightest bit of warning, he began to sob.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Bobby asked softly.

Dean felt the bed dip slightly as Bobby positioned himself in such as way as not to disrupt the multitude of wires connected to the boy; His boy.

“Shush now, come on.

“Mr Renalts we need to discuss the possibility of a drug rehabilitation program for your nephew.” The doctor coached.

“I can rehabilitate him at home, get him back on his feet. We don’t need fancy therapies and medications.” Bobby answered, he continued to gently pat at Dean’s back, “Just tell me when I can get him out of here.”

“He needs an evaluation from psychiatry before we can let him go.”

“There’s no need. He wouldn’t do this on purpose, things just got outta hand.”

“I have to insist. Unless the patient strongly rejects a visit from a member of psych, then an evaluation is suggested. ”

Bobby sighed. He placed both hands atop Dean’s shoulders and stared into the younger man’s eyes.

“Do' ya need'a see a shrink? If there’s somethin' goin' on we can stick around and you can talk for as long as you need to. If not we can go as soon as you can stand. What'd ya think, boy?”

_“You don't need them.”_

_“You're just fine without their help.”_

_“They'll lock you up for sure.”_

Dean glanced from his beloved ‘Uncle’ Bobby to the anxious expression of the young doctor, clearly still in residency judging from his scrubs. Sighing Dean shook his head.

“I just wanna’ go home. It was an accident, I was upset and just needed somethin' to take the edge off. I just took a little too much, that’s all.”

“I’ll need to clear it with my attending. Either way you should be here for another 24 to 48 hours while your body recovers.”

The doctor promptly left, giving both men some much needed privacy.

“How long have I been here?” Dean quizzed, staring at the bruising around his nasogatric tube.

“Two days. Sam was able to get a hold of your location after your brief phone-call and dropped me the details. I drove down here as soon as I could. Your buddies at the crack house told me you’d been picked up, and the police trail led me here.” Bobby sighed, “How did you let it get this far, y’edjit.”

Dean lay back, struggling to keep the tears from spilling over once again.

“I fucked up, Bobby.” he answered softly, “I just…fucked up.”

Bobby laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and issued a short nod. He looked to the bandage covering Dean's latest endevor on his chest. The doctor had mentioned the self inflicted wounds and how aggressive they had been, both old and knew. Of course it was of no surprise to Bobby. The drugs, however, had gotten him a little rattled.

“They found a arsenal of junk in your system. Some shit I've never even heard of.”

Dean lowered his gaze to his hands, now playing with threads on his blanket.

“What ever you're comin' down from it's gonna be rough, I'm sure you know that. But we can fix this.”

“Sam’s gonna’ lose it.” Dean squeaked, his voice barely audible.

“He doesn’t needa know. Boy, I’ve made mistakes in my life, some end bloody and leave ya 'feelin’ so ashamed that you don’t know if you can get outta’ bed in the morning. This is nothin’. I’ll get you home, fix you up and you’ll be well enough to see Sam at the end of the semester.”

“What about Dad? Aren’t you going to tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Bobby smiled.

Dean chuckled softly, before striking that off a list of things it was much too painful to do. A wave of nausea over took him, and he found himself retching forward as cramps exploded in his abdomen. Bobby thrust a kidney dish into his chest and gently rubbed at Dean’s back as he emptied the contents of his stomach.

“This is just the start of it son. You’re in for a bumpy ride.”


	7. 2014: Je me lance, vers la gloire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for the time it took for me to get this here. 
> 
> Long story short, which is hard because I'm Irish; I had a mental breakdown in February and tried to take my own life, after which I got my dream job in Health and Safety, then my partner had a mental breakdown, we decided we are no longer getting married, my PC decided to fry it's self and I was a speaker for Eating Disorder services in my area - so that took up a lot of time.
> 
> I do have 2 other chapters ready to go after this - flashbacks and present day ones. Then back to the drugs, sex and pie. Usual Sunday night. 
> 
> **Title is from Talking Heads - Physco Killer.**

It had been two days since Dean first set off on his journey to camp Chitaqua. The smidgen of energy he had set out with had long since filtered way, leaving a tired and failing shell of a man shuffling through the overgrown waste land of America. His bones hurt from malnutrition and over excursion, but his determination won over and so despite it all he moved on, refusing to even stop for sleep.  

By the time he came across Kansas city limits his temples felt as if they had been reattached to his skill using a hammer and nails. It was here that he took five minutes to steady himself against the legs of a billboard advertising a new TV show that no longer mattered. He took deep steadying breaths in an attempt to remedy his blurred vision.

__Not now Winchester – you’ve come so far!_ _

**_**_Just give up._ ** _ **

Conflicting voices sounded in his head encouraging his headache further. He bit back a snide remark, conscious of how mad it was to reply to his own thoughts verbally, despite being all alone and without the opinions of others. He had been living in the wilderness for so long and he needed to get out of the habit of talking to himself for fear of scaring any of his survivors.

 **_**_Lie down. Take a load off. Drift away and never come back. Those bastards will lead you home_ ** _ ** __._ _

Dean pushed himself off the wooden legs, readjusted his back pack and carried on towards the inner city. In his left hand he carried his makeshift club, a carved tree branch with nails shoved into the wood, while with his right he fingered the gun strapped to his thigh. It had two bullets left neither of which he fancied using in the near future, but just why he was holding on to them he didn’t quite know.

He was passing one of the city’s many malls when he first heard them. The club was instinctively brought in front of his body in a defence position as he gingerly moved towards the voices and the cracking of bones. He peered round the corner of a building at the most unusual site of 3 Croats beating on the body of a younger Croat. They sneered and laughed as they broke its bones, black goo leaking from his mouth and nose. It made no noise or indication of its pain although the rapid rise and fall of its chest pointed towards it being alive.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip as he pressed his body against the rough brick.

“You smell that?”one uttered.

“Human?” another replied.

“Has to be. I’d know that smell anywhere!”

Dean readied himself as they moved towards him. He moved back so as to get a better vantage point and closer to his escape route should he need it, it had been so long since he had last swung his club maliciously and he wasn’t quite sure if he was up to the play.

Then their eyes were upon him, dead on and black with fury. They smiled at him with three long and maniacal Cheshire cat grins that sent shivers through Dean’s spine. They stood there for what seemed like an age before lunged forward,

Dean swung his club wildly, all the ache and exhaustion in his body having faded, making way for pure, unadulterated adrenaline. The club hit something hard, a loud crack echoing off the walls. The smallest of the Croats fell to ground clutching its skull.

Dean swung again and manged to hit another in the centre of its forehead, its cranium dipping in the middle and its eyes bulging from their sockets. It fell to the ground with no further movement.

The remaining of the swiftly moved backwards away from Dean’s fury. It snarled and spat at him.

“Come on you scrawny Bastard!” Dean bit, “ What are ya? A coward!?”

It snarled again, lips curling up over crooked teeth.

Dean lunged forward but thrown to the side by the skinny Croat. It pushed him to the ground, it’s knee lodged in Dean’s throat and a hand grasped securely on each shoulder. It stared at Dean with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“You’re dead.” It announced, “You’re already dead Dean Winchester. The things we know, the things __he__  told us.”

“Can’t -” Dean chocked, “Can’t kill a dead man.”

It chuckled, “No. You’re a waste of time, a waste of energy.”

“But didn’t I just go all Willie Mays on two of your buddies?”

“They were nothing.”

“Oh. Of course not. You Croats were never about family.”

It dug it’s knee further into Dean’s windpipe and brought its face so close their noses almost touched.

“I’ll tell him your here.”

“D-don’t roll out the red carpet just for me pal. I don’t need a fan fare.”

“I’ll see you again Dean Winchester.”

And like that, as if by a puff of smoke, it jumped up and was gone. Dean lay there, immobilised by his burning throat.

Is Sam, or rather the demon in Sam’s body, mocking him? Is it fucking with him?

**_**_Yes. It’s telling all your little secrets, it’s spreading the story of your sick, distorted life and they’re eating it up like flies on shit!_ ** _ **

Slowly Dean got to his feet, using the bricks as a steady surface for his body. The adrenaline was wearing off and all the exhaustion and heaviness was slithering back into his bones.

**_**_They know everything Dean. All the cuts you’ve made, all the meals you’ve skipped, all the drugs you’ve disappeared under and all the hearts you broke in the process._ ** _ **

He gathered his things, slung the club over his shoulder and headed towards the cities centre. Survivors, __if__ there were survivors, would be smart enough to head to the only places  in the city he knew the demons couldn’t go.

**_**_They’re all dead. There are no survivors. Not even your little fuck boy._ ** _ **

Dean’s heart skipped a beat a the mention of Castiel, his chest hurt from the thought of it.

“He wasn’t a fuck boy.” He spat to no one.

**_**_No one’s left. You killed them all._ ** _ **

The voice began to sing __‘Physco Killer’__  out of tune. Dean ignored it as best he could. He concentrated on track ahead, on the possibility of survivors and friendly faces; On seeing Castiel.


	8. 2004 - 2005; He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

John had skipped town on a hunt a few weeks ago. It was after a particularly nasty encounter with a very drunken Dean wherein many profanities were exchanged, along with the occasional right hook. He had said he was going for a hunt, instead he had crept away in the middle of night, and even when Dean had called his cell he hadn't bothered to answer.

“You’ve reached John Winchesters cell phone, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

_Beep._

In a desperate attempt to contact his father, whose ominous presence had kept Dean away from dope and anything intravenous, the young man had left at least ten voicemails, all a little more hopeless than the last. Dean had assumed that with Sammy at collage and uncle Bobby permanently stationed in South Dakota that, at the very least, he had his father on his side. Well obviously assuming, on his part, was bullshit.

He quickly slid back into old habits, although not with the needle and junk, shortly after joining his father in their travels around the country. Despite Bobby warning against it, claiming no good could come of it regarding Dean’s recovery, he felt that he had no choice but to try and salvage some of what he and his father had left. It really wasn’t all that much, just a drink to calm his nerves and any prescription medication that would keep him from the voices. But, after all there bust ups and his fall back into addiction; Dean couldn’t help but regret his decision just a little bit.

No, actually; A lot.

Still, John was his father and he needed to find him for his own piece of mind. In a last desperate attempt Dean fled to the only person he knew would care as much (or as little) as he and made his way to the last address Sam had given him.

 

* *

 

Dean pulled up outside a block of student apartments and stepped up to the door way to check the list of names. It was the third apartment block he had visited that night and he was hoping that he had finally stumbled upon the right one because it was cold, he was tired and in need of Xanax to calm his nerves.

"Evans, Haley, Price, Martha, “He muttered dragging his finger down the list of poorly manufactured name plates," Harper, Dustin, Winchester."

_Sammy._

Dean took the stairs to the top floor hoping the walk would help him steady him. His heart was pounding erratically in his chest and his stomach was fluttering at the anticipation of finally seeing his brother after all this time. It was two thirty when he reached Sam's apartment and with no sound or movement coming from within, Dean made the assumption that he had gone to bed. Quietly he picked the lock and slipped inside.

The apartment was small and overly organised. Dean noted the coordination of the furniture, the multiple pairs of shoes at the door and, finally, the dress laid carelessly over the back of the couch as if someone was in a hurry to get it off.

Dean smiled to himself as a sense of pride washed over him. Sam had a girl.

Really, honestly, Dean always had a niggling feeling in the back of his gut that Sam was gay. Maybe it was because _he_ was so easily able to bed both men and women without the bat of an eyelid, or maybe it was the long hair and puppy dog expression that put Dean in the notion that Sam was homosexual. Either way, like men are about the notion of their son or brother giving it to a woman, Dean was sickly proud.

Or maybe he was just happy that Sammy had found someone to love him, something which Dean had never found among the sweat and screams of another. Mostly all he got at the end of it all was money for another hit or a number he would never dial.

In the midst of all his thought he began to wander around the living room, picking things up and examining them. As he made his way towards the living room window to assess how far up they actually were something heavy knocked him to the floor.

“Whoa!Easy tiger!” Dean gasped, clutching the attacker’s forearms and praying that it was Sam.

"Dean?"

Definitely Sammy.

The younger Winchester bounced up and quickly pulled his brother to his feet. Dean brushed himself off and thanked the God’s, and anyone who would listen, that he had gotten the right apartment. His judgement wasn’t the best when he was loaded.

"Nice to see you too Sammy."

“You scared the crap outta me!”

Dean smirked.

“That’s just ‘cause you're outta practice.” he cracked his shoulder, “You greet all your guests like that? You must be a killer at house parties."

"It's the middle of the fucking night. What are you doin' here?"

Dean shrugged, “Well I was looking for a beer.”

“No, really. What do want? Are you okay?”

“I’m good Sammy. But - well - look, we gotta talk.”

“The phone?”

Dean’s heart dropped. Granted his idea of a midnight surprise wasn’t exactly justified, but he had expected more of a welcome from his brother, even if it was near 3am.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you Dean, I’ve missed you so much” Sam continued, “But it’s very early, and I got stuff to do tomorrow.”

“I get it, but this is important.”

There was a stumbling sound and a light flicked on. Stood in the door way of what Dean assumed was the bedroom, was an attractive young woman clad only in a pair of underwear, and a short ‘Smurfs’ t-shirt.

Dean caught the moment Sam first got a glimpse of him. The look in his eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life. But the younger Winchester didn’t say anything; he just furrowed his brow and swallowed.

"Sam what's going on?" the sparsely clothed woman questioned as she rubbed at her eyes, "It's 3 in the morning."

"Jessica. This is Dean, Dean this is Jessica; my girlfriend." Sam said gesturing with the nod of his head.

“Your brother Dean?” Jessica repeated.

"Hey. Nice to meet you." Dean stepped forward and extended his hand to the woman, “I love The Smurfs.”

Jessica smiled awkwardly and shook his hand.

“Just give me a minute ‘til I get something on.” She uttered.

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. Seriously, this your apartment, don’t let me put you out.”

Sam linked an arm around Jessica’s shoulders protectively and shot his brother a daring look.

"What you gotta talk Dean?" Sam asked sternly.

"Well I kinda need to talk to you...and only you.”

"Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of Jess."

Dean sighed. Shit.

How does he even begin?

( _Well this is how it is. I’m a recovering junkie who isn’t really recovering; I’ve been loaded since the day Dad left because I’m pretty sure I’m the one who drove him to leave ; I haven’t eaten in 5 solid days and even at that my last bite to eat was a happy meal; and I’m pretty sure my arm looks like it’s been through a meat grinder but I’m too scared to look._

 _I’ve missed you so much that I’ve pretty much dreamt of this day ever since you walked out._ )

Somehow Dean didn’t think any of that was gonna fly and the last thing he wanted was to chick flick this moment with sobbing confessions and tears that burned the back of your throat.

"Er-um-Dad. He hasn’t been home in a while.”

“He’s probably working overtime, you know how he is. He’ll stumble in sooner or later. If that’s all-”

“No. I mean he’s been gone on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days. Weeks even.

Sam’s face remained stern as he released his grip on Jessica.

“Jess, excuse us, we gotta go outside.”

 

**

 

The night Jessica died was the night Dean saw a change in his brother. Before Sam had wanted nothing more to do with his family, he carried out his brotherly duty and helped Dean hunt the woman in white. He had even gotten them closer to finding their father but had no intentions on sticking around for the reunion.

But when Sam saw Jessica like that, clawing at the ceiling, eyes rolling in her head and the flames illuminating her like an angel it sparked an anger and sadness unlike anything he had ever felt before. Worse than the loss of his mother, worse than the loss of any friend he had ever had and even worse still than anything Dean had ever put him through.

The loss of his partner and the woman who was going to be his wife had driven him into a blind rage, before finally throwing him into the sad realisation of how his father had felt all those years ago. He became determined to kill the bastard who had done this to him and his family, throwing himself and Dean into hunt after hunt, each making them more blood thirsty and stronger than the last. But it quickly became apparent that finding the demon was useless without their father and so it became all about the eldest Winchester, every text message was a code, every piece of himself he had left behind him had a meaning. Their lives revolved around their father, his whereabouts and thought processes; it became exactly what it had been before.

Among the sadness, and without realising it, Sam became Dean’s sole carer. He took it upon himself to ensure Dean ate at least one meal a day and washed himself on a daily basis. He policed his knives, his medication and alcohol intake. He did all these small little things that he knew annoyed the older brother but ultimately kept him alive and decent.

But despite being forced to eat alongside his brother Dean had managed to lose weight to the point that bones jutted out in places they shouldn’t. Despite Sam’s carefully policing of anything sharp he had still managed to collect new, deeper and more organised scars on his shins. Despite Sam’s everything, he was achieving nothing.

Even with no head way Sam continued. He did it all because the change in Dean was so distinct and so disturbing that he couldn’t bare it. The last time they had seen each other in person had been the summer he left for college and any contact in-between had been brief phone-calls, usually when Dean went missing or drunk dialed him. They had rarely talked outside this and frankly Sam wondered what they even had left to talk about other than hunting and what to eat.

During their time apart even Dean's stature and personality had changed and Sam wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Being in such close proximity 90% of the time meant Sam was forced to tolerate Dean’s midnight disappearances, his issues with privacy and his ever illusive mood swings, all of which had not gone unnoticed. His personality seemed to change at the drop of a hat, going from quiet and reserved, to ecstatic and hell bent on destruction in less than an hour.

Sam had tried asking Bobby but was only met with curt responses.

“Nothing you gotta worry about boy, I’ll talk to him.” Bobby would say, “I’ll sort him out.”

But he never did.

 


	9. 2005 - You gotta have faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is the first of two parts.**
> 
> Again I am terribly sorry for the long wait. I have been a very busy little bee with my new job, my relationship and my own demons. I have not been able to come back to this story for some time due to some personal issues which I am afraid this story highlights for me. But I broke into the playlist after a particularly low day, followed my writing journal and produced what you see before you.
> 
> Honestly the feedback helps keep me going. I am human after all and acceptance and praise motivates me. So hit me up with your thoughts, ideas and hate mail. 
> 
> I will be printing this soon and going through it for typos, grammar and things that make no sense. 
> 
> It's also 10.45pm right now and I have a meeting at 6am - So I'm exhausted and may possibly die.

Sam jigged his knee up and down in a repetitive rhythm he remembered faintly from his child hood. It was a nervous quirk, along side that of biting the skin surrounding his fingernails, that Sam had picked up from his father. It was unearthed when he was particularly anxious about something, much like he was at that very moment surrounded by strangers in scrubs whispering words he didn't recognize and giving him sympathetic glances.

Sam was patiently waiting on the arrival of Dr.Montgomery, a cardiovascular specialist with a plethora of letters after his name. It had been 30 minutes and still no sign of the good Doctor.

He continued to bounce his knee and think about all the times he had bounced on his father's or on Bobby's. He wondered about the science behind it; why grown men bounced children on their knees. Was it the comfort or the promise of a smile and a giggle? Maybe it was the only thing they felt comfortable doing as quite often older men are uncomfortable when handling small children in fear of hurting them. Or at least that's what John had always told him.

_“You fussed, sure, but I left you alone most of the time. Kids are fragile and guys, well we just don't have the coordination.”_

Sam's thoughts were interrupted by the steady click of shoes on tiles.

“Mr Berkowitz's?”

The name rang a bell in Sam's mental rolodex of aliases and he stood to attention. The doctor out stretched a hand, the other holding a file tucked beneath his arm.

“I'm Dr.Montgomery.” they firmly shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, “Please, come into my office.”

Sam followed him and took a seat on a hard leather chair opposite the doctor's desk. His diplomas were displayed proudly on the wall behind him, one ever more important than the other, and Sam took shelter in the fact that at least he knew what he was doing.

“Would you like a cup of coffee Mr.Berkowitz? You've been waiting a while as I understand it?”

“No. I'm good thanks. I just want to know about my brother.” Sam answered.

The doctor nodded his head in agreement and firmly grasped his hands in front of him.

“Mr.Berkowitz - “

“Sam. Just call me Sam.”

“Of course. Sam. I'm not entirely sure how much of what I am about to tell you will come as a shock.”

Dr. Montgomery started into the cliff notes of Dean's assessment and current condition. Eventually it became like a sea of words and phrases Sam thought he would never have to hear in conjunction with his brother's name. It was like every word he said was just a ringing in his ears, with only the buzz words catching his attention; _Cardiovascular weakness, damaged, drugs._

Sam began to chew on the edge of his finger nails as the specialist proceeded with his prognosis stressing over and over that Dean was going to die. There was no sugar coating or pussy footing around the fact. Not any more at least.

“Sam? Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“Uh – no. Not really.” Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose, “You're saying that his heart is damaged from drugs? Not from the 500+ volts of electricity that went through his body?”

“No no the voltage had a lot to do with the heart attack he experienced but the arrhythmia prior to the accident appears to have been caused by months, if not years, of heavy drug abuse.”

“So what? My brother's a junkie?”

The doctor sat forwards in his chair, elbows balancing on the wood of the table. He brought his grasped hands up to his mouth and sighed.

“You didn't know.” It was a statement more than anything else.

Sam bit back the pain in his throat and shook his head.

“From the looks of it he's been a heavy user for years. His arms are scarred, some of his veins have collapsed and he has indication of numerous central lines which would only be used in a setting such as this. The fact that previous hospital visits have not been included in his file is an indication of either a failure on our part or it could be that your brother was using a different name at the time of his admissions.”  
   “Sam the thing with addicts is that they are very secretive, so it comes as no surprise that you didn't know what your brother was up to. That being said Dean is extremely underweight for his height and build and he clearly hasn't had a proper nights sleep in months. Even his behavior, as I am sure you have noticed, would have changed significantly depending on the level of drugs in his system.”

Sam nodded. He had known. _Of course_ he had known. They had traveled through several states together, they had pretty much lived out of each others pockets for months on end; How could he maintained, even after all the red lights and warnings signs, that every thing was okay?

“Of course I knew. I'm not stupid. I just -I just couldn't let myself believe it.” He ran his fingers through his hair and took to staring at the top of his feet, “I guess I just thought it was the depression.”

“Depression?” The doctor looked through the file once again, his eyebrows furrowed,” There isn't a diagnoses in here regarding that.”

“No – he was never formally diagnosed. We didn't have the money and our father wasn't exactly in touch with his feelings. We just dealt with it as best we could.”

“We'll get him a full psychiatric evaluation as a standard procedure while he's here. I would advise you to speak with your brother Sam. Encourage him to tell us the truth and most importantly _you_ the truth. That means he needs to be open and honest about his drug use, his self harm and anything else he may have running around in that head of his.”

The doctor stood and held the door of his office open. They shook hands before Sam made the agonizing journey to his brothers room. It felt like miles, each step taking him backwards instead of forwards. He hadn't yet seen Dean and he was terrified of what he was about to find.

Dean was in a private room as dictated by Mr Berkowitz's level of insurance. He looked small surrounded by the hospital's cotton blankets and paper pillows, but didn't look much different from his usual self. It was only due to the realisation of Dean's addiction that Sam was seeing everything through fresh eyes. He homed in on the track marks and scars on his arms, on the sunken eye sockets and dark circles, and on the chapped lips and protruding bones of his sternum. It was all old news with brand new leads.

As Sam set foot into the room Dean smiled at him.

“Have you ever watched daytime TV? It's terrible.” He coughed, “That fabric softener teddy bear. Oh, I'm gonna hunt that little bitch down.”

Sam closed the door and pulled over one of the comfier recliners. Dean continued to watch the television all the while making comments on the quality of talk shows and commercials.

There were wires and tubes connected to what seemed like every part of Dean's body, each one serving it's purpose and telling a story. The machine tracking his heart beat beeped irregularly in a rhythm that seemed alien. From his vantage point Sam could clearly see the tiny pin pricks in Dean's skin, some older than others, and on the bicep he could just make out several lines of cuts all in various stages of healing.

“Ground control to Sammy? You there?”

“I – I talked to your doctor Dean.”

Sam looked up into his brothers face. The older Winchester chewed on his lower lip nervously.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, well, he probably didn't tell you anything you didn't already know. Did he Sam?”

“He told me a few things yeah.”

Dean pressed, “Like?”

“You're junkie Dean.”

He hesitated for just a second, before dropping his gaze, “Sound's about right.” He answered.

“How long has this been going on? And don't lie to me.” Sam sighed, his expression was one of disappointment rather than anger. 

“A-a while.” he whispered. 

“When you went missing for all those months a few years back, was this it? Were you out getting high? ” 

Dean nodded gently. 

"Jesus Dean.” Sam hid his face in his hands and sighed, “I can’t believe this. I mean you weren’t _you_ for so long but I thought it was your head, man. Not - not this.” his voice broke, “Never this.”

“Don't bullshit me Sammy. You're a smart kid. Of course you knew, you just didn't want to admit it is all.”

Sam buried his face into his hands and sobbed. Dean could feel his already busted heart breaking with each shake of Sam's shoulders. He felt himself welling up and bit his tongue just to make it go away.

“How long have I been in here Sammy?” Dean asked, picking at anything to try and change the subject. He had awoken earlier that morning with only the dull recollection of being lit up like a Christmas tree in the basement of a creepy old house.

“You’ve been in here 3 days now.” Sam took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes, “The doctor said you had so much shit in your system that they didn’t really know where to start when they brought you in.”

“And what about all this shit,” Dean gestured to the wires and tubes, “Why all the robotics?”

“The shock triggered a heart attack and your hearts damaged enough as it is. They don't think you'll have long. They also want to do a psych evaluation and I strongly advise that you tell them the truth Dean.”

“I’m good. Besides I'm gonna die anyway, what's the point?” 

“You’re getting it. You clearly can’t make any life changing decisions in your current condition Dean and they’ll be able to see that. So you’re getting the evaluation.” 

“I don't really want some quack doctor telling me that I'm crazy, thanks.”

“We're not discussing this – there's nothing to discuss. You're sitting there and telling what ever quack you get _everything_. Drugs, sex, booze, self harm; everything. So if there is anything else you don't want me to find out through someone else then tell me now because Dean, we gotta start being honest with each other whether your days or numbered or not.”

Dean clenched his jaw clearly annoyed by his little brothers sudden authority over him. He fidgeted with the thread on his thin hospital blanket. If it was true what they were saying and he only had a few days to a few weeks to live then he had nothing to lose by telling Sam everything. In fact clearing the air could only be a good thing because at least he would leave this world knowing he did the right thing by confessing his sins to someone even if it wasn't a priest.

“You wanna know everything?” He asked without looking up from his broken fingernails.  
“Only the main story line, I don't think I have the emotional or mental strength for side quests right now.”

Dean didn't even blink at the geeky reference laid out before him. Instead he took a deep, shaky breath and started into a tangent of places he had been, drugs he had done, food he hadn't eaten and places he had cut. Sam sat in silence beside him afraid to ask questions for fear of breaking the spell.

Dean's voice broke on several occasions but he dared not cry for fear of setting his already shell shocked brother off. By the time he was finished his throat was burning and his head was spinning from the amount of information he had to relay.

“You don't eat?” Sam finally said.

“That's what you're taking away from all that? The fact that I happen to have a little bit of an issue with food?”

“I'm just saying.Isn't that chick thing?”

“Sammy I'm sure you're smart enough to know that's not true. A lot of all the shit I do is connected. Sometimes the not eating makes me feel good, especially when I'm feeling particularly bad about myself. Much like today.” He lifted the nasogastric tube snaking it's way into his nostrils and down his throat, “But I don't really get the option.”

“No and thank God because you've already done pretty much everything you can do to make this situation even more complicated.” Sam scoffed, “I mean no wonder your heart is fucked. I'm surprised it didn't flunk out months ago.”

“No need to be so passive aggressive Sammy.”

“Well how do you expect me to react to this? You're _dying_ Dean. You would have had a chance if you had just stayed on the right track but now your body is fried and there's nothing they can do. Can't you see how serious this is? You're going to _die_. Can I make that any clearer for you?”

“So what?” Dean swallowed, “It's okay if I die. I'm ready. I'm _more_ than ready.”

“But what if I'm not?” Sam asked solemnly. His eyes welled up with tears and his bottom lip shook like a child who hasn't gotten his own way.

Dean watched as his little brother, the one he had swore to protect, sobbed uncontrollably. Somewhere along the way Sam made his way carefully onto the bed beside him and Dean linked an arm around his broad shoulders. He felt tears drip down his cheeks but tried his hardest to stop the agony from escaping his throat. If he could he would've screamed louder than anyone had ever screamed before just to get some of the pain and guilt out of his body. It was eating him alive from in the inside, travelling through his blood and into all his surviving organs.

Really, if God had wanted to take him there and then he would have left down his arms and surrendered because dying was bound to feel better than this.

“I'm going to fix this.” Sam eventually whispered, “I know you can't so I'm going to. Because that's what Winchesters do; We fix things.”

Dean closed his eyes and gently stroked Sam's hair.

“You do what you gotta do. Just don't fool yourself Sammy, because it's gonna hurt more if you have hope.”


	10. 2005 - I'm going to die, and there's nothing you can do about it.

_'This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help.'_

Sam bit his lip and blinked back tears at the sound of his own fathers voice. Of course the man wasn't going to answer. Dean was in trouble and, once again, John Winchester was staging his famous disappearing act.  
Sam inhaled deeply at the sound of the tone.

  
“Hey, Dad. It's Sam. Uh - you probably won't even get this, but, uh - it's Dean. He's sick, and uh - the doctors say -well it's his heart. There's nothing they can do – Um - but, uh, they don't know the things we know, right? So, don't worry, cause I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get him better. Alright. Just wanted you to know.”

  
It clicked off within seconds of him finishing his pathetic plea for help. The younger Winchester slumped forward with defeat. Withe their father out of the picture and Dean in the hospital there wasn't really anyone else Sam could reach out to for help, but the knowledge of his brother's inevitable death in mind, Sam took to the pages of John's journal and called every number he could get his hands on. Over 40% of them went unanswered, their previous owners having abandoned them or too sceptical to answer but the other 60% proved successful and Sam scribbled down their suggestions eagerly.

  
Finally it was time to call Bobby.

  
He chewed on his fingernails as the dial tone sounded, hoping and praying that the man wasn't in his yard.

  
“Hello?”

  
“Bobby? It's Sam.” He didn't really know what to say to the man. Honestly he was angry that Bobby had kept this a secret for so long.

  
“You boy's okay?”

“No – uh- not really.” Sam inhaled deeply.

  
"What is it boy?" Sam heard the sound of Bobby drawing out a chair from his kitchen table.

  
“It's Dean. We were on a job and he got electrocuted sitting in a pool of water. His heart couldn't take it.”

  
“Are you telling me Dean's dead?” Bobby answered slowly, the panic in his voice painfully evident.

  
“No – and he's not going to die. I won't let him. But there's nothing the doctors can do but make him comfortable at the moment. They're telling me that his heart's so damaged from years of abuse that there's no way back.” Sam sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose, “ What I'm trying to tell you Bobby is that I know _everything_ , but what I don't know is why you didn't tell me. Or better yet why he didn't tell me himself.”

  
"I don't know what you're getting at boy." Bobby's stoicism burned at Sam's heart.

  
"I think you know damn well what I'm getting at."

  
There was a long pause. Sam could hear the sound of Bobby's old bull mastiff lulling about in the back ground. The older man sighed heavily into the receiver, his indifference shifting.

“I didn't know where to begin. He didn't want to hurt you and I didn't want to hurt you either. Dean and I kept this to ourselves and after he got clean - “

  
“But he's not. They found shit in his system when they picked us up. He has fresh marks and cuts and God knows what else on his body.” Sam ground his teeth in frustration.

  
“He was clean when he was with me. It was touchy at times but we got there eventually.” Bobby exhaled sharply, “I can't understand why the fuck would he do this again? Especially to you.”

  
“I don't know. I can't even believe he did it in the first place.”

  
"He loves you Sam. Like nothin' I've ever seen before. If anything was gonna keep him off the junk I thought it woulda been you."

  
Sam's stomach dropped. Even he wasn't enough to keep his brother clean. It was like an arrow was shot straight through his heart.

  
“Sam I can come up there, where ever you are. Just say the word.”

  
“Don't bother, “ Sam spat through clenched teeth, “I can look after him. I can save him and get him clean.”

  
“I've been there Sam! I can get him back to where he needs to be.”

  
“You clearly can't. Once his heart is healed I'm getting him clean Bobby and this time he'll stay clean. I understand him and I know he's fucked up but I can fix him too.”

  
“Dean's sneaky Sam. He's a junkie. If he wants to get high he'll find a way even if you're eyeballin' him 24/7. You're only breaking your own heart.”

  
"Thanks for the warning." Sam sneered.

  
"I'm telling you boy - "

  
Sam's phone began to vibrate with incoming call. Bobby chattered on in the distance as Sam stared carefully at the caller ID. _Joshua_ flashed across the screen along with the HOLD and DECLINE buttons. Sam suddenly felt a chill run up and down his spine. Could Josh have come through for him? Could he really be that lucky?

  
"Sorry Bobby. I have to go there's a call on the other line."

  
"Sam--"

  
He picked up the other call, hanging up on Bobby in the process. He had said all he had needed to the man and quite frankly he wasn't buying any of his bullshit. Dean's little habit should have been made public knowledge by Bobby at the very least the moment he and Sam reconciled. The very thought that Bobby had kept that from him just to save Dean's face made Sam's insides churn.

"Please tell me you have something Josh!" Sam exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

  
"Well I'm not sure it’s what you will want to hear but it is something." Josh paused waiting for a reaction. Without one he continued, " I have a lead on a faith healer about an hour out from you in Nebraska."  
Sam's insides dropped. He could feel the disappointment clawing at him from the outside in but something in the back of his mind told him to hear Josh out.

  
"A _faith healer_? We aren't exactly kneeling at Church every Sunday."

  
"Yes _really_ ! This guy is amazing! Fifty People can vow for him and who knows how many others. Don't you want to help Dean?"

  
"I do but -"

  
"Give it a go. Okay? What's the harm?"

  
Joshua continued his stories about the Reverend Le Grange, rhyming off review after review in an attempt to win Sam's approval. After thirty minutes Sam was warming up to the idea, and eventually the idea of a man of God somehow healing his otherwise heathen of a brother didn't seem as far-fetched.

  
"So I just rock up to that address with Dean and wait to be healed?"

  
"Well not exactly. Haven't you ever been to one of these before?"

  
"Like I said not exactly Gods number one fan here dude."

  
"Right. Well you go in, take a seat and if he chooses Dean, then he gets healed. End of."

  
"Wait so it's not a guaranteed thing? Dean might not be chosen?" Sam sulked.

  
"No not the first time. But keep going and he might eventually be taken forward."

"Dean doesn't exactly have a lot of ' _eventually_ 's."

  
Joshua fell silent on the other end of the phone. Sam rubbed at his temples in frustration. Was there nothing else they could try? He couldn't exactly live off a 'maybe' and he was slowly losing faith with this healer.  
"It’s a stretch, I get it. But what other options do you have other than a transplant. Let's be honest that isn't going to come anytime soon."

  
Sam bit back a snide remark around the fact that they wouldn't give one to Dean lightly due to his drug use. He wasn't about to air Dean's dirty laundry to a hunter they barely knew no matter how angry he was.

  
"I guess you're right." Sam sighed, " I don't have much in the way of treatment options right now."

  
"Let me know how it goes, alright brother?"

  
"Yeah sure Josh. Thanks."

  
Sam hung up the phone and ran his fingers slowly through his hair. He stared at the tops of his feet, wriggling his toes just to make sure it was all still real. He somehow wanted to crawl into the grimy motel bed and wake up in the morning to discover it had all been a bad dream, like those shitty old movies on prime time. But that wasn't going to happen and Dean was most certainly going to die.

 

*

 

The shrink was scheduled for 10.30 a.m. Dean was gone by 07.05. He didn't like the idea of some whack job with a medical degree poking around in his head like he was some sort of science experiment. He waited until the doctors had finished their rounds before disconnecting the various wires and needles and changing into his own clothing. They were still slightly damp from the accident.

  
He picked the lock of the medical cabinet by his bed side and lifted out a handful of packaged syringes and some pills that he didn't take the time to interpret.

  
The staff were light on the ground leaving an open exit for Dean to work towards. He crept along the hallways, stopping only to lift a hooded sweatshirt from an abandoned chair in the A&E department's waiting room. He quickly asked a short, blonde hair woman at the reception booth to call him a cab and she obliged without so much as a soft smile or pick up line.

  
Dean sat down upon the steps of the memorial hospital, his body hunched over and the sweatshirt pulled as tightly round his small frame as possible.

 

*

 

The knock came early the next morning for Sam. He had thought he would get to lie in to at least 8 a.m given that his shoulders had begun to tense from all of the stress. He cursed loudly and called out to the visitor to give him a few seconds.

  
"Come on man! It's freezing out here!"

  
Sam froze at the sound of his brother's voice. He raw to the door, swinging it open to reveal a pale and tired looking Dean in a hooded sweatshirt Sam didn't remember him having.

  
"Dean that better not be you."

  
"Who the hell do you think it is? Houdini?" Dean pushed in by him, leaning on everything within reach as he went "I couldn't stay in that place any longer, Sammy. It smelled like death and formaldehyde."

  
Dean fell onto the bed, threw his shoes off and pulled one of the duvets around his shoulders.

  
"What are you doing here?" Sam quizzed.

 

"I checked myself out." 

 

"What about the shrink?"

  
"She came around last night about nine. We talked about rainbows and butterflies." Dean lied.

  
"Bullshit." Sam clenched his fists in frustration, " Are you crazy?"

  
"Maybe a little bit. But you know what's bullshit? Dying in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot."

  
Sam slumped down onto the other bed. He held his head in his hands, gripping tightly onto the hair on his scalp. Bobby had warned him about this. He had warned him about how slimy Dean could be.

 

 

"This whole ' _I laugh in the face of death_ ' act is transparent. I can see right through it." Sam huffed,"Plus you look like fucking shit."

 

"Thanks Sammy. Have _you_ even slept? You look worse than me." Dean chuckled.

  
Dean pulled himself up into the middle of the mattress and lay down in a fetal position in an attempt to hold onto the heat. Somewhere in the distance he heard Sam move and in the next second felt another blanket being thrown over his body.

 

"I've been looking into things for the last few days. I think I've called everyone in Dad's journal." 

 

"For what?" Dean mumbled. 

 

"For a way to help. I got a call back from Joshua about a guy in Nebraska."

 

"You're not gonna let me go in peace, are ya?" 

 

"He's a specialist Dean."

 

"Mmm" Dean could feel his body relaxing under the weight of the covers. The heat finally moved into his bones and his eyes became gritty. Honestly in that moment Sam could have told him that he had gotten God himself to come down to sort this mess out and Dean wouldn't have cared. 

  
"I got some things to sort out before we go Dean. Get some sleep while I'm gone, okay?" 

  
"Sure Sammy."

  
"I'm locking this door. You had better been here when I get back."

  
"Mmm hmm."

  
He faintly heard Sam moving around, keys jingling and then suddenly he was gone, the door bared securely behind him. Dean thought about finding another hit, one of the last he would ever have no doubt, but his eyes were heavy and his body felt like he had been mowed by a 4 X 4.

  
He would just close his eyes for a second.

 


End file.
